Rockabilly Limbo

by William W. Johnstone

  The President sat down behind his desk and put his face in his hands. He rubbed his face and lowered his hands. “Does anybody have a clue as to what started this . . . madness?”

  An aide said, “There is this Episcopal priest down in Tennessee who wrote us—about three months ago—that he felt the devil was about to make some sort of move. I remember the letter because we all got a good laugh out of it.”

  The President looked at the aide. The woman had been with him for years. “The . . . devil?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “He was involved in that, ah, incident in North Arkansas last year,” another aide spoke up.

  “What incident in North Arkansas?” the Chairman of the JC’s asked.

  “The one involving ghost honky-tonks and walking dead and pornography and so forth.”

  The chairman, a four-star, thirty-year veteran of the Marine Corps, looked at him. “Boy, what the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Bad water,” the director of the FBI answered.

  The chairman looked at him. “Bad water?”

  “It was a cover-up, General Stovall. There were some, ah, well, documented supernatural occurrences there. We couldn’t, ah, allow the American people to know what actually happened. It would have been bad for the country. I mean, dead people rising out of the ground and lurching about—”

  The chairman, a mustang officer—that is a man who enlisted as a private and rose to the rank of four-star general—could, on occasion, revert back to his barroom brawling days in Subic Bay, San Diego, and Saigon. He took a deep breath and roared, “Are you sitting there telling me that fucking dead people rose out of their fucking graves and fucking walked around?”

  Two female aides and one man (who wasn’t exactly sure what he was) stood up. “Excuse us,” they said.

  “Sit your asses down!” General Stovall roared, rattling the coffee cups and picture frames and pen and pencil sets. They sat. He looked at the director of the Bureau. “Take it from the top. And don’t leave anything out.”

  * * *

  “I’m not saying this to bad-mouth your group, Cole, Jim,” Bob Robbins said. “But about half those with you don’t know crap from peanut butter about weapons.”

  Jim smiled. “We know. But we couldn’t leave them on their own. They would have been dead in twenty-four hours.”

  “Only five of us will be going in on any op with you,” Cole said. “The rest can keep the home fires burning.”

  “Sounds good. Ely has been moving a lot of his people over to Gatlinburg for a big push against me and mine.” He smiled. “So we hit Gatlinburg tomorrow night.” He laughed at the expressions on their faces. “The equipment is already in place. All we have to do is hoof it over there. Two canteens of water, a couple of MRE’s, and personal weapons. You guys pick your people and say your goodbyes to the others. Be back here in two hours. Let’s see if we can’t get this nation standing tall again.”

  * * *

  General Stovall listened intently, made only a few notes, and then leaned back in his chair after exchanging glances with Army, Navy, and Air Force. Stovall was the first Marine to ever be named Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. The Coast Guard does not have a representative on the Joint Chiefs because it is a part of the Department of Transportation.

  “There were members of the press there in North Arkansas when this, ah, incident occurred?” Stovall asked.

  “Yes,” the Director of the Bureau replied.

  “And you also had some of your people in there for a time, right?”

  “That is correct, General. Special Agents Frey and Steckler. Among others. We took over the investigation of the pornography aspect of it.”

  “I would like to see the files on this case,” Navy said.

  The Director shook his head. “Washington is a shambles, and the Federal Building in Memphis was destroyed, so that is impossible. Everything was lost.”

  “So the official government stance was that some young people put LSD in the water supply and that caused the townspeople to go crazy?” Air Force asked.

  “That is correct, sir.”

  “That is the biggest bunch of horseshit I ever heard in my life,” Army said bluntly. “What happened to the film of these dead people lurching about?”

  “Much of it didn’t turn out. The lighting was wrong; something like that.”

  “Horseshit!” Army repeated.

  The Director shrugged his shoulders.

  “This Henry Milam, the priest, where is he now?” Air Force questioned.

  “Memphis, I suppose.”

  “Are you in contact with your agents there?” Navy asked.

  “Of course we are,” the Director said stiffly. “We’re in contact with all our field offices.”

  “This Steckler and Frey,” Stovall said. “Are they in Memphis? Are they alive?”

  “Yes. Steckler was working a bank robbery and Frey had stepped out of the building just moments before it blew up.”

  The President took it. “I want them to find this Henry Milam and I want them all, Steckler, Frey, and Milam, here, at this facility, ASAP. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” the Director said.

  “Do it,” the President ordered.

  * * *

  Cole, Jim, Bev, and Gary were on the march with Bob Robbins and his people when the shortwave was monitored. Hank could not go with them because he had twisted his ankle that afternoon. It was not a break or even a bad sprain, and he would be all right in a couple of days. But for the moment, he had difficulty walking.

  “I understand,” Hank said to Scott Frey. “But how are you going to get me out of here?”

  “Chopper. You’ll have to give me the coordinates as soon as you can work them out.”

  “Couple of days, at least,” Hank radioed. “I twisted my ankle and can’t walk.” Hank was hedging because he wanted Cole and Katti and Jim and Gary and Bev with him when he met with the President.

  “All right. I’ll get that back to Andrews. Hank? You remember Bob Jordan?”

  “Sure.”

  “He’s dead. Just found that out. He was protecting the residents of a nursing home. A mob overwhelmed the place.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I liked him.”

  “Get back to me ASAP, Hank.”

  “Ten-four. Hank out.”

  * * *

  The taking of Gatlinburg was a milk run. Ely Worthingham’s people were not nearly as well equipped as Bob Robbins’s smaller force. The battle lasted for less than a hour before Ely’s Believers started surrendering. Ely’s Believers suffered twenty dead and more than forty wounded. Bob’s force did not even take a scratch. The attack had gone letter perfect: fast and brutal.

  When the shooting stopped, the few permanent residents of the tourist town who had been trapped there came out of their homes warily.

  “It’s all right,” Bob assured them. “No one is going to hurt you. Is there a doctor in town?”

  “Doc MacCarthy,” a woman said.

  “Get him. He’s got some patching up to do.” Bob was handed a written communique just received by radio and turned to Cole, a map in his hand. “My people now control these towns I’ve X-ed. I believe it is now safe for you to get your people out of the mountains and in here to Gatlinburg.”

  “I thought you only had about fifty people?” Jim questioned.

  Bob smiled. “I lied. Sorry, Jim. But I had to be sure about your bunch.”

  “I understand. I—”

  “Message coming in, sir!” Bob’s radioman called. “It’s the priest for Cole.”

  Cole put on the phones and listened. “All right, Hank. I copy all that. Get everything packed up and ready to move. Come on into Gatlinburg. It’s secure. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  “I think we’re going to take a trip,” Cole said to his group.

  “Oh?” Jim said.

  “Yeah. The President wants to see us. Somebody finally told the President the real reason behind all t
his chaos.”

  “Colonel!” the shout came from a small motel office. “I found a couple of prisoners in here. Women. They’re reporters.”

  “I think we’ve found the missing Laura Lordan and Cindy Callander,” Gary said.

  Cole smiled. “It will be interesting to see how they report this.”

  Four

  The electricity was still working and the women immediately hit the showers and bathtubs in the motel on the edge of town for a long, hot soak.

  By mid-afternoon, Scott Frey and George Steckler had been choppered in and were meeting with the militia people.

  “This is just one small victory, guys,” Bob told them. “Ely has a very large force, and they’re all over the state. I’d guess that nationally, ten million or so people subscribe to his philosophy of government. Probably more than that. And they’ll fight, boys. Believe that. They’ve been preparing for this for years.”

  Scott left the room and got on the radio, scramble-net. He returned a few moments later. “The President and the Joint Chiefs want to meet with you, too, Colonel Robbins.”

  Bob hesitated for a moment. “All right,” he said. “But I won’t go unarmed and nobody is taking my weapons from me. If this is a trap, we’re all going to get bloody.”

  “Goddamnit, Colonel,” Scott lost his temper. “The entire nation has been turned upside down—”

  Bob held up a hand for calm. “Easy, Agent Frey. I’m on your side, remember. But before this . . . trouble, the government was giving guys like me a hard time. No more of it. Things aren’t ever going to be the way they used to be. You can count on that.” He paused and stared at the FBI man for a moment. “But I think you already know that, don’t you?”

  Scott returned the silent stare, then turned to go. He stopped and faced the militiaman. “No guns around the President. And I mean that.”

  Bob smiled.

  * * *

  They were helicoptered to the McGee Tyson Airport outside Knoxville, the only civilian airport in the state still fully operational. National Guard and militia members had kept the airport functioning during the worst of the fighting. There, Cole and Katti, Hank and Bev, and Jim and Bob Robbins, along with Scott Frey and George Steckler, boarded an Air Force jet for the trip to Andrews Air Force Base.

  “We’re getting the VIP treatment,” Cole said. “This is one of the president’s fleet.”

  In addition to the people who got on in Knoxville, there were several Secret Service people on board.

  “What’s the matter?” Bob asked with a grin. “Don’t you people trust me?”

  The Secret Service did not see the humor in his remark.

  “Can anybody tell me what’s happened out in L.A.?” Jim asked. “I’ve got some friends out there.”

  “Are you kidding?” one of the Secret Service people said. “L.A. blew up during the first seventy-two hours.” The agent sat down on the armrest of the seat across the aisle from Jim. “Wait until you see D.C. It’s still smoking.”

  “According to the news, and then when that went dark, the shortwave, every city in America blew up. What’s the death count?”

  “God only knows,” the agent replied. “I’d guess several million.”

  “How many people like Brother Ely Worthingham have popped up?”

  “Hundreds. And several hundred men like your friend, Bob Robbins.”

  “Bob’s all right. He’s not some wild-eyed radical. Some of his views are to the right, but so are mine.”

  “Yeah, we know,” the agent said, then stood up and walked back to his seat.

  Cole had heard some of the exchange. He smiled at Jim. “If D.C. is destroyed, how would they know that?”

  “After our part in what happened in Arkansas, I think we just might have been investigated a tad.”

  Cole leaned out in the aisle and tapped Scott on the shoulder, knowing the Bureau man had been listening. “Is that right, Scott?”

  Scott would not even acknowledge the question. Cole leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He dosed the rest of the way.

  * * *

  The meeting was held in a large briefing room on the Air Force base. The President of the United States, half a dozen of his top aides, the Joint Chiefs and their aides, half a dozen Secret Service personnel, and Cole and his group.

  There was coffee and soft drinks and sandwiches on a table. “We’ll keep this informal,” the President said, after introductions were over. “Pomp has been kicked right in the butt of late.” He looked at Hank. “What do I call you? Father? Reverend?”

  “Hank will do. I resigned my ministry some weeks before this game began.” Hank was not about to reveal his other thoughts.

  “Game?”

  “Sure. That’s what it is. A game between God and Satan. And from where I sit, I would have to say it’s lions ten and home team zero.”

  General Stovall smiled at that. “Hank, do you, any of you, have any proof that the, ah, devil, is behind all this?”

  “Proof?” Hank questioned. “Something that would stand up in a court of law? No. But I suspect, knowing how vain and arrogant and pompous Lucifer is, he’ll make his presence known at this meeting.”

  The President was in the process of taking a drink of water. He choked on the liquid and sat the glass down, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Are you telling us the . . . that—”

  “That the devil is present?” Hank finished it. “Yes. We,” he waved his hand at the group, “seem to be favorite recipients of his, ah, well, rather peculiar brand of humor.”

  “Assuming that is true,” General Stovall said, “I see nothing amusing about this situation.”

  “Of course you don’t,” the voice boomed out of the air, startling everybody in the room . . . except Cole and those with him. “You’re too stupid to have a sense of humor.”

  General Stovall’s mouth dropped open and he looked all around the room.

  The President stood up, looking wildly around him. His aides were twisting and turning in their chairs. The Joint Chiefs were looking in all directions. The Secret Service had drawn their weapons.

  “What airline did you use to get up here?” Hank asked in a calm voice.

  “Actually, I was sitting in the rear of your plane,” the disembodied voice said. “Secret Service Agent Dee Martin has a great ass on her.”

  Agent Martin, standing in the rear of the room, flushed a deep red.

  “I’ll agree with him on that,” Cole muttered, and that got him a dark look and an elbow in the ribs from Katti.

  “What the hell is going on here?” General Stovall shouted.

  Music flooded the room with sound. “The Marine Corps Hymn.”

  “Where the hell is that coming from?” Stovall yelled.

  The voice said, “A perfect example of one of the few, the proud, the brain-dead.”

  “Why, you son of a bitch!” Stovall roared, jumping to his feet.

  The music changed. The strains of “Stouthearted Men” filled the room.

  “I love martial music,” the voice overrode the song. “It’s so stirring.”

  Hank lit a cigarette. One of the president’s aides said, “We don’t allow smoking. Carcinogens, you know?”

  “Screw your carcinogens,” Army told him, and pulled out a pack of smokes and fired up. His hands were shaking.

  “Get some ashtrays,” the President said.

  The music faded, and the voice was silent.

  “He’s gone,” Hank said. He met the eyes of General Stovall. “You wanted proof?”

  The top Marine sat down heavily in his chair. He shook his head and elected to remain silent.

  “What the hell is that smell?” Navy said, sniffing and grimacing at the odor.

  “Burning sulphur,” Cole said.

  “Let’s take a short break,” the President suggested, his voice shaky. “I think we all need some fresh air.”

  * * *

  About an hour later, the President met in private with Hank
and Cole. There was just the three of them present.

  “You’re not being recorded,” the President assured the men. “So you may speak freely. Back there in the briefing room, that was really the, ah ...”

  “The devil, yes. Or one of his minions,” Hank said. “Probably the real article,” he lied straight-faced.

  “He, it, could have killed us all!”

  “No,” Cole said. “No, he can’t. He can cause windstorms and rain and lightning and thunder, but he can’t kill us. I don’t know why that is, but it’s true. However, he can turn other men and women against us.”

  “I’ve been a politician for most of my adult life,” the President said. “But I don’t know what to do about this situation. ”How does one fight the devil?”

  “Are you a religious man?” Hank asked.

  “I go to church. I try to live a decent life. I try to do the right thing. But in politics, that isn’t always easy to do, and sometimes we just don’t do it.” The President paused, started to add something, then shook his head.

  “You were about to say . . . ?” Cole asked.

  The man smiled. “I was about to say that was off-the-record, but what the hell difference does it make now?”

  “Oh, we won’t lose, Mr. President,” Hank said. “We being the good guys. But the government of the United States will never again be the same. Prepare yourself for that, sir.”

  Pres. James Edward Mason, former Speaker of the House, leaned back in the chair and stared at Hank for a moment. “I intend to have this nation running smoothly in a year’s time, Hank. Just the way it was.”